by Karen Brooks
‘Things change all the time; people move, die, marry, fall sick. Never take for granted what you’re told. Never trust what is written. Never trust your eyes.’
‘If I can’t trust my eyes,’ I said, looking around, drinking in the solidity of everything I could see, ‘then what?’
‘Your head,’ said Thomas. ‘And your heart.’
Thomas made sense. You could never trust your eyes with a lock. So many appeared to be one thing but were really another. Unpicking them, I relied on every sense but sight — touch, hearing, my sense of smell and even taste. I also relied on my heart — on an instinct that arose from somewhere beneath my breast and warned or encouraged me in a manner that couldn’t be ignored.
Over the weeks I spent at Seething Lane in the company of watchers and intelligencers, I became so adept at falsehoods and subterfuge, so quick to invent stories or colour the truth, my family had no idea I wasn’t attending to Sir Francis’s daughter but instead was embroiled in much darker and more mysterious matters.
THIRTEEN
HARP LANE, LONDON
March, Anno Domini 1581
In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I
Winter bade adieu and spring blossomed, and as the days grew longer and there was still light to spare once I arrived home, Papa began asking me to join him in the workshop.
With music in my heart, I obliged. I would test the locks he made, open jewel chests owned by ladies who’d lost their keys, or document boxes that had jammed. It was at those times Papa would ask politely about my day and accept my rather taciturn responses.
‘Sir Francis treats you well?’
‘I hardly see him, sir,’ I answered truthfully. ‘Parliament is sitting and he is otherwise occupied. Most of his staff as well.’
Even Mamma, accustomed by now to my long hours and reconciled to the fact that my being a companion to Mister Secretary’s daughter was nothing to be ashamed of, admitted me back into her presence. I was forbidden to discuss my employ (I sent a swift thanks be to Christ for that respite), but was allowed to say a prayer or sit quietly as she and Angela conversed.
My evenings were oft spent rehearsing Caleb’s new play in the parlour. I’d help him con lines, acting out the different roles, entertaining the apprentices and servants as well as Angela and Papa.
Curious about what my job entailed, when we were alone Caleb proved most persistent in his need for detail. I would try to distract him by asking about the fortunes of the troupe, his writing and even, on occasion and against my better judgement, Lord Nathaniel.
It was late March when news came via the town criers and the speakers at St Paul’s Cross that Parliament had passed stricter legislation against Catholics. There were to be crippling fines for hearing mass, and a year in prison for simply appearing at one. For saying mass, the fine was doubled, followed by twelve months in gaol. For those who didn’t attend the Church of England Sunday services, the penalties were increased as well. I worried how Papa would pay for Mamma’s stubborn recusancy. Her non-attendance at church would no longer be viewed with tolerance and I feared what that presaged, a fear exacerbated by the work I was doing and the new and murky knowledge I was gaining.
But that was not the worst of it. Parliament also decreed that if anyone was caught converting to Catholicism, they’d be declared a traitor and sentenced to death.
The laws were the talk of the streets. The same day they took effect, I filled my time at Seething Lane donning different disguises, speaking only in Spanish, challenged again and again by Thomas as I played the part of a serving maid, a youth newly arrived from the Escorial, a lady’s maid to the gentry and even a widowed gentlewoman — a part for which I had much experience. Satisfied with both my language skills and my convincing portrayals, Thomas bade me write a coded report of my day’s activities for Sir Francis.
‘He’ll return from court tomorrow and will be keen to update himself on your progress,’ said Thomas. ‘I’m looking forward to learning what he thinks.’ He briefly placed a hand on my shoulder and gave a rough squeeze. ‘You have exceeded all expectations,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
We smiled at each other and his eyes began to look suspiciously dewy. Clapping his hands together, he barked, ‘Again! This time, in Italian.’ And so, another hour passed.
When I arrived home, a little later than usual, Comfort greeted me in the hallway. She took my cloak and gloves and promised to bring wine and some supper to the parlour. I went to my room to remove my hat, shoes and ruff. Papa was in his workshop with the apprentices, and Mamma and Angela were resting. Caleb was in Southwark, rehearsing with his troupe. There was no-one to make demands of me. Ensuring the fire in my bedroom was stoked, I collected my copy of Juan Luis Vives’s work The Education of a Christian Woman (a New Year’s present from Papa), intending to enjoy the book and some solitude in the parlour.
Comfort, bless her, had left a jug of wine and a goblet on the small table by the window. The fire crackled, the room was lovely and warm. Evening shadows spread across the yard, chasing the chickens back into their coop and the heavy-stomached cat towards the kitchen. It would not be long before we were blessed (or cursed as Master Gib would say, as he made room for Latch by the stove) with kittens. Pouring a drink, I sank into the chair, kicking off my slippers and curling my legs beneath me, imagining, with a smile, soft balls of fur and plaintive mews.
In the garden I could discern shy buds beginning to blossom on the trees. There were hints of violet and ivory, as well as coral and yellow. The vine that clung to the wall at the rear of the yard was also giving off new shoots. Spring was here and with it colour and new life.
New life. That’s what I too had been given. A fresh beginning, a novel way of being. For all that it relied on facades and fabrications, there was something real and meaningful about what I did, even though I’d not yet been asked to test the skills I was acquiring. Thomas felt I was almost ready. I did, too. But it was up to Sir Francis to decide.
In the weeks I’d been going to Seething Lane, I’d barely given Raffe much thought. Even the dreams that used to torment me no longer held the power they once had. Reaching for the locket nestled over my heart, I pulled it from my dress and squeezed hard. Well, all but one dream, one thought, but that was different. It was a dream of what might have been, had I not been so hasty, so gullible, so ready to defy my parents; so cowardly. And yet, despite the price I’d paid, here I was again, thwarting my parents’ wishes. I’d agreed to be dutiful and obedient. While part of me reassured myself that this was still the case — had not Papa acquiesced to my employ and signed the contract? — another part called me to account: I was a fraud. Worse, I had a co-conspirator of the highest order, one to whom I showed more loyalty than my own family.
But wasn’t it all for a greater good? This was not to satisfy my own base desires nor to fulfil some childish fancy. This was for the Queen and country. It was also to atone for my great sin.
Why then did I feel more knave than hero?
Lost in a maze of thoughts, pulling tendrils of hair from their plaits, lulled by the wine and the warmth of the room, I did not understand that someone else had arrived until the door swung open and I heard Comfort’s voice.
I rose quickly, the goblet still in my hand, and my book clattered to the floor.
Swooping to pick it up, the book held out before him, a smile upon his scarred face, was none other than Lord Nathaniel Warham.
FOURTEEN
HARP LANE, LONDON
The 18th of March, Anno Domini 1581
In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I
Was it my imagination or was there perturbation on his lordship’s face when he saw who was in the room? Ignoring my own sinking heart, I fixed a smile to my face.
‘I’m afraid Caleb isn’t here —’ I retrieved the book from his hands.
‘Good even’ to you too, Mistress Mallory,’ said Lord Nathaniel, swaying slight
ly, managing in that simple phrase both to reprimand my lack of courtesy and exude a sense of goodwill, even though it rang false. He was no happier to see me than I him. It would be churlish of me to take offence, yet I had to fight hard to repress the feeling.
‘Forgive me, my lord.’ I dropped the slightest of curtsies, aware of my stockinged feet, unruly hair. ‘I forget my manners. May God give you good evening.’
‘Finding you here, He already has,’ said Lord Nathaniel with all the sincerity of a Fleet Prison warder. Without waiting for an invitation, he threw himself into a chair, flashing me a grin as he did. ‘It’s been a while, mistress.’
Scurrying over with an extra goblet, Comfort poured his lordship a drink and handed it to him.
‘Ah, you’d best be careful mistress, lest you be accused of prophecy,’ he said.
‘Prophecy, my lord?’ Comfort stepped back abruptly, one hand upon her breast, her brow furrowed. Parliament had declared prophecy and casting the Queen’s horoscope grave offences. Anyone caught would land in prison. ‘I know naught of such things, sir.’
‘But, mistress, you read my mind.’ Lord Nathaniel winked and took a long draught of wine.
Understanding he was jesting, Comfort gave an exaggerated sigh of relief, chuckled, and refilled his goblet.
‘Thank you, Comfort, that will be all,’ I said. The last thing I wanted was his lordship cupshotten, though I suspected he was already well on his way. Not only had he been unsteady on his feet and keen to sit, but the fumes wafting towards me suggested an afternoon of imbibing, as did his slightly ruddy cheeks and distant stare.
Taking advantage of his distraction, I studied him as I resumed my seat. Unlike the last time I had shared his company, on this occasion he was very finely dressed. His cream peascod doublet, sewn with pearls and gold thread, was exquisitely pinked. Black velvet breeches, hose and boots complemented his ensemble, as did a modest ruff. Atop his tawny hair sat a black and cream bonnet replete with a large emerald feather that swept from this face to the back of his head. A jewelled brooch in the shape of an anchor fixed it there. Any appreciation of his fine apparel and the way it sat without a crease or fold, presenting — even I had to admit — a most becoming picture, was somewhat dimmed by his condition. Though he’d not anticipated seeing me, how dare he call when he was blathered by drink? We might be locksmiths, but were we not worthy of the same consideration he’d extend to a courtier? No polite man would presume to intrude upon a gentleman’s house in such a state but would either retire to an inn or his own company — preferably, his bed. Yet, here he was in our parlour in Harp Lane. The man’s arrogance knew no bounds.
Resigned to dealing with him until Caleb found his way home or Papa appeared, I sought my slippers with my toes and shuffled them back onto my feet. Comfort retreated to the hearth, pretending to tend it whilst chaperoning us. Though I was regarded as a widow, neither the family nor I could afford another slight upon our — my — reputation.
The silence stretched out. The fire crackled merrily. Lord Nathaniel sipped his wine. I placed my book upon the table. Across the yard, smoke billowed from the workshop and there was the faint ring of metal being struck. Aware of Lord Nathaniel’s groggy regard, I began to colour.
‘I know not how long Caleb might be, my lord.’
‘There I have the advantage. He’s already en route. I went by the inn where the Men had just completed rehearsals only to be told he’d departed. I came by river and am surprised he’s not already here.’ There was a pause. ‘I wish to discuss the new play with him.’
‘You’re referring to Dido’s Lament?’
‘I am. The Master of Revels, Sir Edmund Tilney —’ he drawled the name, ‘pulled me aside while I was at court.’ Uncrossing his legs, he sat forward in his seat. ‘Seems Lord Warham’s Men are developing a fine reputation and now the Queen has selected Caleb to celebrate Drake’s accomplishments, his other work is drawing attention as well; not all of it the kind he would wish — nor would I as his patron, for that matter.’ He stared at a spot over my shoulder and then, slowly, raised his drink to his mouth. I’d long held fears about Caleb’s temerity, his desire to pluck political threads and see where they unravelled, and it seemed those fears were being realised. Lord Nathaniel looked into his goblet, which appeared to be empty. Again. ‘Mighty fine wine, this.’ I gestured to Comfort to pour him some more. ‘Dido’s Lament could be a great play, if only Caleb is careful,’ said his lordship, watching the ruby liquid splash into his vessel.
The tragic love story of Aeneas and Dido and the settlement of Rome was a rollicking tale of lust, greed and desire as well as invasion and treachery. Using Virgil’s Aeneid as inspiration, Caleb had longed to bring it to the stage. It would cast a critical eye over Romish interests in Europe and the New World, and English ones as well — and thus explored questions of faith. It was no surprise the Master of Revels urged caution.
I searched for something to say. ‘For all that he has a marvellous grasp of words, I fear “careful” is not in Caleb’s lexicon.’
‘In that you’re correct, mistress,’ said Lord Nathaniel and, with his golden eyes fixed on mine, raised his drink. ‘Perchance between us we can urge him to embrace such an unfamiliar state, especially in light of the new punishments offered to those who defame the Queen. I would Caleb keep both his meagre wages and his ears.’
I nodded. ‘I would sooner see him in his room upstairs than resting in a pillory.’
‘I would sooner him alive than dead.’
My heart flipped. ‘Disparaging Her Majesty, even in jest or the fiction of a play, could incur such a sentence?’
Lord Nathaniel stretched out his long legs. He made the chair appear ridiculously inadequate. I wondered if he had special furniture made to accommodate his size. He’d need special chairs, stools, a bespoke desk. And what of his bed? That would require additional length and width. My face grew hot. I forced myself to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘Aye, a second offence now means death to those so convicted. There are many among the Council keen to test the effectiveness of the new laws. In fact,’ he said, reaching for the ewer and helping himself to another drink, sloshing some wine onto the table in the process, ‘I believe you work for such a man.’
My heart constricted in my chest. Nonchalance, I reminded myself. Reaching over, I slid my book away from the red puddle spreading over the table, and gestured to Comfort to wipe up the mess. My mind galloped. How did Lord Nathaniel …? Oh, of course. Caleb. Swiftly cleaning away the wine, Comfort took the ewer to refill it, muttering she’d return anon. I waited till she’d left.
‘You speak of Sir Francis.’ I was pleased how even my voice sounded.
‘Mister Secretary. Indeed, I do. A friend of mine, and my family’s as it happens. Loyal to a fault. To the throne.’ I wondered how praise could sound so ambiguous, so like a criticism. ‘Caleb tells me you’ve a position in the household.’ Lord Nathaniel’s face was inscrutable. ‘What I know of Sir Francis is that he doesn’t admit just anyone into his home lightly. Why, it’s common knowledge he runs a network of intelligencers from Seething Lane — and Barn Elms. Couriers, too. His stables are legendary, are they not? You must be an extraordinary woman to be employed by him. Possess many hidden talents; something Caleb oft hints at as well. I cannot help but wonder what those might be.’
I drew my breath in sharply. Did he think me Sir Francis’s whore? Or did he mean something else? Was he alluding to my real employ with Sir Francis? But how could he know? That was a secret between myself and Mister Secretary. Not even Thomas, or Sir Francis’s brother-in law Master Robert, or any of his other agents knew what Sir Francis intended with me. Not even I knew. How could this man? He could not.
Zounds, but the insult was obvious and stung. The drink he’d consumed could not excuse him. That he awaited until Comfort was no longer present to say such a thing was another mark against him. I would not be spoken to in such a manner. He might be a lord,
but his ill-breeding was apparent. Let him think what he wants. I remained silent. What did I care? This man was nothing to me.
I willed Comfort to return. I began to wonder what was taking Caleb so long. If he’d indeed left the inn as Lord Nathaniel said, then he should be here by now …
‘Well?’ insisted Lord Nathaniel. ‘What say you, mistress? Assuage my curiosity, I beg of you.’
‘I say,’ I began slowly, determined to steer the conversation in a different direction, ‘curiosity proved fatal to a creature with many lives to spare, suggesting it’s not a healthy state for a man who has but one.’
Lord Nathaniel gave a bark of laughter. ‘I didn’t ask for a parable, mistress. I asked for an answer.’
‘Then here is my answer, sir. I am companion to Sir Francis’s daughter and sometime teacher to select of Sir Francis’s staff whom he wishes to be more fluent in the languages of both our allies and enemies. To consider anything else is mere fantasy. Caleb is not only a master with words, but with fictions as well. He has created a story with me as his heroine. I would not believe all he told you, my lord; at least, I would not take it as truth.’
Lord Nathaniel shook his head slowly, the smile fixed to his mouth altering till it took on the appearance of a sneer. ‘You play with me, mistress. I prefer straight answers to my questions, not rehearsed ones. They’re preferable to mealy-mouthed lessons or female dallying.’
I drew myself up. ‘I assure you, my lord, I do not offer a lesson — mealy-mouthed or otherwise. Nor do I dally. Play is for children or actors such as those you patronise. It is not for the likes of me.’
‘Is it not?’ asked Lord Nathaniel, tilting his head. ‘I think all women capable of playing a part when it suits them. I’m sure your woman here would agree.’ His arm swept towards Comfort who, entering the room with a refreshed ewer, stopped short.
